July-August 2026 Blog: European Beach Impressions
I have had the privilege of being invited by my son and his family to join them on several European holidays. Once I know the flight is less than three hours, I can never turn it down. My days of enduring flights of ten hours or more are behind me.
My love of travel was instilled in me by my mother, who
took my younger sister and me to visit family on nearby Caribbean islands,
including St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands, St. Kitts and Nevis, and
Antigua. As an adult, I travelled farther afield, visiting Grenada, Haiti,
Puerto Rico, and many other countries. My life's journey has also taken me
across continents. I lived in the United States, then in Liberia, West Africa
(1976–1990), and later in London, England, before settling in Basel,
Switzerland, where I have lived since 1991.
My two most recent sunny holidays were to Sardinia and Santorini. Their warm
climate, beautiful landscapes, and inviting beaches remind me of home, yet they
are less than three hours away by plane. I am not a swimmer; I am a writer. I
am content to lie in the sun and watch people, wade into the water to soak my
feet, or wander with a camera in hand, capturing the scenery and the mood of
the day. Later, I capture those same moments again with pen and paper.
Here are a few poems that
reflect my impressions of these places and people who flock to them.
Watching
Hawkers On A Beach in Olbia
On this grey day
when the clouds holds back the sun,
the beach still overflows.
A rainbow of umbrellas and tents
cover slow, simmering bodies
on towels and in plastic chairs.
I sit in a one, the prison
my son has helped me into.
I am a people watcher
when not reading and writing.
Hawkers, mostly
Senegalese,
tramp up and down selling their wares--
towels, plastic balls, dresses, headbands, trinkets…
everything under the sun.
anything they can carry in hand, on head.
And there are Senegalese women
selling hair-braiding.
They zigzag between the bodies on the beach
in search of customers,
your choice of braided-style
on a poster they display.
At their base, not far
from where I am grounded,
I watch a woman, baby on back,
whose hands dance between strands of hair.
Her zig-zagging fingers, leaping and knotting,
create patterns on a head.
If Poseidon got tired of it all,
hawkers and sun-bathers and on-lookers,
he only need to splash his hands.
But the sea shows no sign of his splashing.
My eyes glaze over,
watching the hair-braiding---
the quick orchestration of hands,
the flicking and twisting of fingers.
They have put me, in my chair,
and Poseidon, lulling in the frothy surf,
under a spell.
Rooted
and Uprooted
I sit in a green chair
rooted in white sand.
I needed a hand
to get into it...
my arthritic knees
painful in the steep bending.
From the low seat
the aqua sea is rimmed by the light blue sky,
hemmed by the white-sanded shore
dotted by a rainbow of umbrellas
shading people in various stages of roasting.
The police come by
ordering me in Italian to move
and I try to speak with my hands,
tell them my old bones
cannot uproot themselves.
I am saved by a nice man
who heaves me onto my feet
and resettles me into a spot
not on a forbidden path.
I am rooted in my chair once again.
and I watch those grateful
to the gods of sun and sea
for browning their bodies
now roasted rare,
medium and well done.
(Althea Romeo Mark Sardinia 2025)
On The Way to The
Beach in Perissa, Santorini
We had arrived late at night
in Perissa.
In the morning, the
desert-like terrain unveils itself.
Brown, barren mountains reaching
for the sky surround us,
stare down at the dry land.
The wind blows sand and dust
in all directions.
Our white hotel stands in
stark contrast,
to the brown mountains and
blue sky.
On the road to main street,
the town center,
two piebald horses and a black
donkey
stand amid plastic trash in a
dry field.
Our hearts go out to animals
standing in the heat.
A blue container of water is
there to quench their thirst.
We wonder where the owners of
the branded animals are?
Do they take them home at
night?
To the left of us, a white
church sits in a crevice,
in the bosom of the giant
mountain,
a place to do penance, I
presume.
Is getting there is part of
the penance?
No roads are visible from
where we stand.
Crossing the main road to the
beach,
our ears are assaulted by
revved up cars and motorcycles,
the noise testing the strength
of our eardrums and hearts.
The black-sanded beach
appears,
brown, straw umbrellas lining
its length.
Tourists are roasting on the
lounge chairs.
Some lobster red, some seared
brown
like grilled meat at a
barbecue,
sun-tan lotion the extra sauce
for simmering.
The deep blue water invites us
to enter.
We put our toes in, then sink
in waist deep,
watch blue, yellow and red
fish nibble at our legs and feet.
We dip down, feeling like a
christening in the Aegean.
We are born again to the
luxury of the seaside.
"Today,
The Wind Is King"
White
buildings stand against the pale blue sky
amid a swirl
of cream sand and brown dust
blown left by
the wind.
Subdued
trees lean left too.
The windy
voice mimics waves rushing to shore,
the crashing of water whipping rocks.
But here, there are
no waves or rocks;
the sea is far away.
An
abandoned construction site
bears the
brunt of the lashing,
the lasso
of sandy dust swirling.
Lumber and wires are ripped away in the storm,
their pieces fly off to unknown
destinations
on the
wind’s
whimsical wings.
The brown
mountains bear witness
to it,
and so do we from the safety of our homes.
We stay
in when the wind is king.
Let it do
its work.
Keep out
of its way until it
is done venting.
© Althea Romeo
Mark, Perissa, Santorini
2024
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